Immigrant
by Poison-and-Foxglove
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is an immigrant to America in the year 1846, desperate to find work that has been denied him in England. He starts working for a man named Alfred Jones and finds that the other workers are immigrants like himself. undecided pairings.
1. Prologue: Fresh off the boat

I remember some other men on my ship staring longingly at the English coastline as we drifted away and muttering "God save the Queen" half-heartedly through chapped lips. Then there were those who turned their backs on the country the second they stepped onto the creaking wood of the ship, talking excitedly about leaving the Old World for the New, and more importantly their new lives. Lastly, there were me and a few others who cared little for either side. I would carry my English pride with me wherever I should go, but that didn't mean I was bound to that impoverished land where the rich fed off the poor and where Manchester coughed up clumps of black smog that choked the gray skies. But that didn't mean I was frothing with optimism over traveling to this new country either. From what I understood, land of opportunity or not, America was the land of the all-too-free and liberal egoism that was bound to get on my nerves. Still, my pride seemed to matter little when my stomach ached from hunger for food and my pocket book from hunger for money.

The clamor on the ship had begun to die down as more of the men retreated into their cabins and soon I was listening to the call and response of the waves slapping the base of the ship. I wrinkled my nose as the cool breezes nipped at my face which I imagine brought quite a shade of red to my skin. Once I'd wiped at my runny nose several times, I too gave in to the night and headed into the cabins.

The minute I threw open the flimsy door, I could hear some shouts and the clinking of rum bottles in the small warm bunks. The stench was enough to bat a few eyelashes at and I quickly climbed onto the small cot where I'd thrown my few bags earlier that today. I had just turned toward the wall to relax when someone jostled my shoulder. I ignored it until the action became repeated.

"Yes?" I asked my disturber.

"What's a young bloke like you heading to bed so early for?" His speech was slurred like the rhythm of the ship and his hot rank breath scorched my cheek.

"It's been a long day. I figured some rest would be good on my part."

"Rubbish! There's reason rightly to celebrate!"

"Aye!" a nearby Irishman called out.

"You'll be out of ale and rum before we even catch sight of the coast," I pointed out.

"It's o' no consequence! Once we reach America, I'll make money enough to buy all the bloody rum I want." A large wave shook the boat and he stumbled from the side of my cot.

"That depends on whether you're sober enough to even procure a job while you're there, git," I spat as he groped his way back to my bed.

"You're a clever-talking one! One of them high-end, educated fellows!" he jeered at me. Some of the other men responded by shouting small obscenities at me. The truth was that I probably had no more formal education than the others here, but rather I was taught much at home by my mother. I admit, it put me a little above most of the other people in my class, but I wasn't about to become arrogant about it.

"I'll drink to that tomorrow then. I'm not feeling it tonight." In truth, I didn't think my stomach could handle alcohol. I was a furniture craftsman by trade and had had little experience traveling on water. I cupped my hand around my abdomen and turned back toward the wall.

"Let 'im be, John. 'E's probably missin' some pretty girl he left behind in England."

"You must mean 'is mother!"

The cabin roared with laughter. I really didn't miss my mother because I hadn't seen her in years and God only knew there was certainly no woman of romantic interest in my life. My friends had told me how beautiful the American girls would be and how I'd instantly fall in love, but nothing of that sort interested me as much as securing a job for myself. Anything had to be better than the pathetic wages I'd been earning before.

"He's got reason to be scared," a Scot piped up. "Once we're there, he won't know a single bloke in the whole land and will have to start from scratch. Aye, it won't be easy."

The cabin quieted down at his words. He took a long drag from his cigarette and stared at the dirty floor, perhaps regretting his words.

That was the first and only time I ever felt any fear on that trip.

The rest of the voyage over went accordingly, give or take a few sicknesses among the passengers. Thankfully there was a practicing physician on board and the rest of were careful enough to avoid them until they were better. As I expected, the alcohol ran out well before we got there and the last leg of the journey was spent in a cranky, quiet and sober state. I could hardly complain about that. That mood, however, was instantly reversed the moment we could see the distant stretch of New York coastline approaching us.

The men hooted and hollered, husbands embracing children and kissing wives for those who brought their families along. The single men rejoiced as one while I kept my distance, not wanting to join in the foolishness. I simply couldn't act that way when sober.

To be honest, I was a little anxious about how the ship would be received, considering it was littered with Englishmen. The war both 70 years ago and the more recent one around 30 years ago hadn't been pleasant ones from what I've heard and I hardly wanted to enter a country full of hostile men. As the dock came more clearly into view, I left the deck to gather all of my things while the others continued cheering and yelling. I frowned a little at the single bag I'd brought with me, but I couldn't afford to bring another and frankly I hardly had anymore to bring as it was. The most precious cargo I was carrying, I figured, was the skill of my trade. That would subsequently bring me more belongings, or so I hoped.

I opened the bag and went through it quickly, making sure none of my wild bunk mates had taken anything from it, and that nothing had fallen out or been forgotten in another part of the ship. I was pleased to find everything in its place, namely my books. Heaven knows I would sorely miss those.

I peeked my head outside the cabins and saw the boat had reached the dock. I must admit that my heart started pounding from the realization that I'd actually arrived in the New World and that a brand new country was standing before me. I hastily grabbed my bag and rushed out onto deck, preparing to step back onto land after so many weeks.

It's embarrassing how much I had to control my breathing as I waited behind my shipmates to get off the boat. I both wanted to push them out of the way and rush onto the land and turn back around and go home to England. Somehow, I made it off the ship alright.

I came upon the Americans working the docks and immediately took a step back. I'd heard that the richer diet in this country had made them larger than the English, but I hadn't imagined it to be this much so. I was a small man as it was and this was easily intimidating. Afraid of harassment for my nationality, I tried not to make eye contact. However, it was they who approached me first.

"Welcome to America!" A large, calloused, and well-tanned hand clapped my shoulder. I stared down at it, fascinated, and finally looked up at the man. His face was darker than anyone I'd known and his accent made me smile a bit.

"Thank you so much, sir." I bowed politely. He flicked the top of my head. "What the-"

"You're not in England anymore, son! You're in America now! We believe in equality here. You're free now!"

My first instinct would usually have been to come up with some cynical retort about having too much enthusiasm or the irony of being in a free country that instituted slavery in its southern parts, but I was in New York after all, where there were no slaves and where opportunity was supposedly abundant. So, instead I smiled up at him and slowly laughed.

Welcome to America indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Land of Opportunity" turned out to be a complete overstatement. It is with regret that I say my first few nights were spent stashed away into narrow alleys where I tried to procure as much warmth as one can from randomly discarded piles of soft rubbish or hay. I'd brought a small purse of money with me that was stolen whilst I slept one of the first nights. I was fortunate enough that this country still practiced the barter system to some extent and I ended up giving up the fine scarf my family had provided me in order to obtain a few days' worth of rations.

The bustle was astounding. I ran into a business transaction at every turn; from gentlemen in top hats discussing big money to women haggling with the local fish monger. Even the children were already infected with the workings of the market, making trades and deals with sweets and toys. Carriages zipped past me on the roughly-made roads and newspapers were shoved under my nose at least every half block. I looked at a few, but they mostly focused on politics and issues that I was mostly unaware of. The smell of salt hung over the city, and unfortunately mixed with other smells like smoke, body odor, and horse dung. The ringing of ships bells reverberated in my ears constantly and shouts always accompanied them. It really wasn't too much different from the place I'd left, other than the fact that they spoke in funny accents and there seemed to be a higher spirit worked into the people. Rather than the pessimistic banter of Englishmen I was used to, I heard a lot of optimism. Making money, raising the family, the future: it was always about the future. For a country with virtually no past at this point, the future was all they had. Progress was all they cared for and hard work was the only way to obtain it. They had the freedom to do so after all; and that was what made the common man here laugh and joke after he'd worked a harsh 10 hour day. Even a cynic such as myself was a little moved.

The American accent wasn't the only one I heard either. There was a striking amount of Britons and other Europeans here. I caught snippets of French, German, Spanish, and any other kind of European language you could imagine. I saw colored workers working among whites at the docks. London might have been just as busy as this place, but it was nowhere near as diverse or alive.

It wasn't perfect, of course. There was a gross number of homeless and poverty-stricken people here. It made me uneasy imagining ending up in their position. But after, the Americans all said that they were poor because they were lazy and not resourceful. I didn't believe that for a second, but I still had to remember to work hard to make my living here.

For all the books and pamphlets I'd read on America, none had prepared me for what I had to suffer the first week there. In all descriptions given to us Europeans, jobs were practically thrown around like commodities and easily obtained by any, especially if you had a well-developed skill. It was all of these things that kept me mostly optimistic after coming up empty-handed the first day. However, the rejections started to pile onto each other. I was most often told that no hands were wanted and second to that, I heard about the grievances against General Jackson for putting the economy in its current state. Fair enough, I supposed.

Another problem was that many shop owners couldn't afford to hire me. They complained of the prices of pewter and sadly declined me.

On my eighth day, I found myself mentally and physically spent, though still frantically roaming up and down every new street I came across, keeping an eye out for potential employers. I had to admit, my appearance must have been unsettling. My hair was wild, my clothes were shabby, and I was almost hunched from carrying my bag everywhere with me. My stomach protested with every step I took and I'm certain my face reflected the discomfort I was in. Essentially, I was a perfect picture of the homeless blokes that littered the place. It was even worse to remember that I myself actually was part of the homeless.

I took my chances at another small shop and was easily turned down, though by this time I wasn't surprised. I respectfully bowed my head and thanked him for his time. Distraught, I turned away without much care and ran into the chest of a passerby.

"My apologies, sir."

Instead of replying, he gave a sour look to his friend beside him.

"This city is simply ridden with foreigners," he sneered, glowering at me. "It's no wonder none of us can get a decent job."

His friend nodded. "They'll work for any wage, like a bunch of dogs."

This was astonishing to me. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't run into any anti-European sentiment (namely anti-British sentiment) during my first week there, but no one had been so direct with me. As a rule, I consider myself a level-headed person who handles things rationally, but there were still a few things that could invoke the testosterone in me.

"Better than you whiny Yankees, expecting to be paid like royalty," I spat without thinking. I really should have considered the fact that they were both well over my own height. I was too late to realize this before one of the punched me in the jaw. They looked to be strong sea-faring men, and I staggered back a few steps.

"Would you look at that! The little Brit can barely take a hit. And he thinks he can make it here?" He seized me by the collar and pulled me so close that I could see the black holes forming in his teeth. I knew for a fact that Americans had reached the stage of development where they used toothbrushes, so I could only assume the man to be of a very vulgar manner.

"The city is no place for a frilly Brit like you. You want to know what I advise? Go west." He threw me back away from him.

I straightened my collar. "I don't practice agriculture. There's no demand for my trade in the West." I hadn't come to America to squat land and watch livestock for the rest of my life. Not to mention that I had absolutely no more means for travel.

"Then go back to your damned country and your damned queen!" He shot a thick glob of yellow saliva at my shoe. It was then my turn to punch him, I decided.

The second I did, the two grabbed my arms and threw me to the ground. They threw punches at my face until I felt warm blood dripping from my nose and mouth and smearing all over my cheeks and chin. I tried to struggle, but they took hold of my legs too before they started kicking at my ribs. No one stopped to help me, and it was just like living in London all over again: no sympathy. Or so I thought.

I covered my face with my arms to prevent any more damage when I felt the kicks suddenly stop. I peeked through my sleeves to see if they were leaving or just catching their breath before going for another round to see that it was neither. Two men, even taller than my assailants had taken the men from behind and were restraining them.

"What the hell?" one of them protested. "Get your hands off of me!"

"No can do. I've had enough of guys like you harassing all the immigrants. You're giving our country a bad reputation," one of my saviors said.

"They rightly deserve it! They're driving us Americans into poverty!"

"Wrong. They're expanding our labor market. And isn't this place supposed to be a sanctuary for those trying to escape monarchies? Give it a rest."

My other savior, the larger of the two, grumbled something in what I recognized as German under his breath. The man he was holding wrinkled his nose. "I see you're working with them. Disgusting."

The large German tightened his grip on the man until he cried out in pain. The American laughed. "You better watch your mouth! Ludwig's not much of a talker, but he can understand English just fine."

"Shit! Just let go!"

"You promise to get out of here?"

"Yes!"

"And to leave this British gentleman alone?"

"Christ, yes!"

"Good! Let him go, Ludwig. Now get! Both of you!"

My assailants scurried away faster than any other men I'd seen in my life, or from what I could see from behind quickly swelling eyelids. A pair of large hands hoisted me up roughly and dusted my coat off. I looked up to see the pale blue eyes of the German man Ludwig staring hard at me.

"Are you alright?" he asked in a thick accent. I nodded slowly.

"Don't worry about him. He's a man; he'll be alright. Yikes, but it looks like you've been through a lot!" He laughed with a typical American hearty laugh. I could only think to glare in return.

"I've been living on the street since I came to this bloody country. Did you expect me to look like I'm on my way to have dinner with Queen Victoria?" I dusted off what Ludwig had missed on my trousers.

"Calm down, it was just a little joke. And I meant your face mostly. It's covered in blood and bruises now."

My hand subconsciously went to my face and I winced when I felt how sticky it was, and that the blood had made dirt stick to it as a result. I could feel one of my eyes throbbing and my jaw ached.

The American nudged me gently with his elbow. "Hey, you can come into my shop and wash up."

Jaded, tired, hungry, and everything in between, I quietly thanked him and followed him and Ludwig inside. The noise from outside was muted with the door shut behind us and the smells were replaced with the familiar scent of wood and lacquer. The shop was a modest one, but it was tidy. There were windows to let the American sunshine in and small personal touches that made it much more comfortable than the bleak shop I'd been fired from in England. The sight of tools sitting on one of the tables made my hands twitch with want of putting them to use. It'd been a while and I wanted to make sure I still had it in me. I was led over to a metal basin in a corner with rags draped over its sides. Ludwig wet one and squeezed most of the water from it before gently (surprisingly, considering his muscular physique) wiping my face. I did my best not to wince, not wanting to look inferior in front of these two large men. The fact that the American started talking to me made it easier.

"So you just came here from England?"

"Yes, London."

"Are you liking it so far?"

I hissed a little as Ludwig swiped across an open cut. "I can't really enjoy anything until I have a job." The words came out with more negativity than I'd intended.

The America scratched his head and stuck out his upper lip. It was an odd face and I laughed a little until my jaw reminded me that I was in no condition for laughing.

"What's your name?"

"Arthur Kirkland."

"What's your trade, Arthur?"

"Cabinetmaker."

"Alright, how would you like to work for me, Arthur?"

I widened my eye that wasn't injured. "Really?" I hissed again as Ludwig began to apply alcohol to my wounds.

"Certainly! I have room for another worker. I also like to take in immigrants. Guys like that have no place in a country so blessed as this one. You shouldn't listen them. Go west, amusing. I wouldn't do it. If you can't make it here, you can't make it anywhere in the country. I would know; I've tried."

"I can't thank you enough. I'll work right away, if you'll let me. I'm sorely In need of somewhere to live." I yelped as Ludwig suddenly lifted my shirt. I gave him a questioning look, to which he gruffly replied that he was only checking my ribs for injuries. I nodded and turned back to my new boss, who was grinning at me.

"I'll be more than happy to give you a small loan to find somewhere nearby. Then you can just work it off."

I had fallen on wonderful fortune. Not only was I now employed, but soon to be sheltered as well. All that was left to be desired was to get my first payment in order to buy some food and clothes. I started doing quick calculations in my head with some of the prices I'd seen at the markets and almost got completely carried away in my thoughts. I hadn't even seen my new boss leave the room and come back with a bank note. He had to practically shove it into my hand; I was in such a trance.

I stared down at the note and heaved a sigh of relief. Things were going to be okay. I wouldn't have to write horrible things back to my family. There was compassion to be found in this new land. I tucked the note into my jacket, a smirk forcing its way onto my face. My boss grabbed my hand and shook it roughly.

"The name's Jones. Alfred Jones. Just call me Alfred; I hate being called "sir" or "mister". Looking forward to have you work here, Arthur."

I shook back vigorously, grinning. "Thank you! Truly, thank you!"


End file.
